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Armored Hearts: Selected & New Poems
Ratings:
150 pages2 hours
Summary
Armored Hearts, combining new poems and a selection from previous volumes, offers the power of idiomatic narrative at its naked best. "It is refreshing to read a poet who is not obliquely vague, who tells a story cleanly and convincingly, and yet who will not close down mysterious and complicated things about life that simply defy such closure."--Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Publisher: Copper Canyon PressReleased: Jul 15, 2013ISBN: 9781619321076Format: book
Book Preview
Armored Hearts - David Bottoms
Thanks
I: SHOOTING RATS AT THE BIBB COUNTY DUMP
Wrestling Angels
With crowbars and drag chains
we walk tonight through a valley of tombs
where the only sounds are frogs in the reeds
and the river whispering at the foot of Rose Hill
that we have come to salvage from the dead.
Only the ironwork will bring us money,
ornamental sofas overlooking graves,
black-flowered fences planted in marble,
occasionally an urn or a bronze star.
But if there is time
we shatter the hourglasses,
slaughter lambs asleep on children’s graves,
break the blades off stone scythes,
the marble strings on silent lyres.
Only the angels are here to stop us, and they have grown
too weak to wrestle.
We break their arms and leave them wingless,
leaning over graves like old men lamenting their age.
Smoking in an Open Grave
We bury ourselves to get high.
Huddled in this open crypt we lay the bottle, the lantern,
the papers, the bag on a marble slab,
tune the guitar to a mouth harp
and choir out the old spirituals.
When the shadows of this life have grown, I’ll fly away.
Across Confederate Row an owl hoots our departure
and half-fallen brick becomes a porthole filled with stars.
We lay our ears against the clay wall,
at the foot of the hill the river whispers on its track.
It’s a strange place where graves go,
so much of us already geared for the journey.
Shooting Rats at the Bibb County Dump
Loaded on beer and whiskey, we ride
to the dump in carloads
to turn our headlights across the wasted field,
freeze the startled eyes of rats against mounds of rubbish.
Shot in the head, they jump only once, lie still
like dead beer cans.
Shot in the gut or rump, they writhe and try to burrow
into garbage, hide in old truck tires,
rusty oil drums, cardboard boxes scattered across the mounds,
or else drag themselves on forelegs across our beams of light
toward the darkness at the edge of the dump.
It’s the light they believe kills.
We drink and load again, let them crawl
for all they’re worth into the darkness we’re headed for.
The Drunk Hunter
Spun on a flat rock
his whiskey bottle points out magnetic north.
All afternoon trees stagger downhill
and up along ridges above thick brush.
He stops to watch them sway
and drinks the last of his Tennessee whiskey,
shoots the bottle off a pine stump.
Thinking there must be a logging road near,
he secretly hopes that someone heard his shot,
takes time to warn he’s hunting posted land.
Come morning they will praise his patience,
tell stories in camp of a tree stand
frozen over a creek, how old Jack never would come back
empty-handed. In two or three days
they will tell what found him in the deeper woods.
Below Freezing on Pinelog Mountain
Crouched in the rusted cab of a junked pulpwood truck,
we take shelter from freezing rain,
count bullet holes shot in the hood by hunters.
Our burden is keeping dry
while dogs follow the game into darker woods,
white breath rising from their yelps like spirits
in that song land where the soul never dies.
But when you pass me the bottle,
cough for the whiskey burning
cold in your throat, that same breath fogs the windshield,
rises like gray smoke through rust holes in the roof.
Cockfight in a Loxahatchee Grove
Trucks backed against the canal,
we walk with our birds toward the depth of the grove
where the moon hangs hidden in leaves
and oranges bleed shadows across black dirt.
In lantern flare
they bolt and panic in their coops, gaze hawklike
at the circle of boots and Cuban feet.
Legs spurred like thorns,
their hearts throb toward rupture like ripe fruit.
In body shelter they are brushed and calmed.
Our circle widens like the pupil of an eye,
then lanterns are hung among oranges.
Flung toward light,
the birds jerk
the leather sheaths from their spurs,
collide between us in air and blood,
caw and heat. Crippled
and dragging wings, only one crawls back into our shadow.
Coasting Toward Midnight at the Southeastern Fair
Stomach in my throat
I dive on rails and rise like an astronaut,
orbit this track like mercury sliding
around a crystal ball.
Below me a galaxy of green and blue neon
explodes from the midway to Industrial Boulevard,
and red taillights comet one after another
down the interstate toward Atlanta.
In the hot dog booth the Lions are sick of cotton candy.
Along the midway Hercules feels the weight of his profession,
Mother Dora sees no future
in her business,
the tattooed lady questions the reason
behind each symbol drawn indelibly beneath her flesh.
We all want to break our orbits,
float like a satellite gone wild in space,
run the risk of disintegration.
We all want to take our lives in our own hands
and hurl them out among the stars.
A Trucker Drives Through His Lost Youth
Years ago he drove a different route.
Hauling in a stripped-out Ford
the white hill whiskey nightclubs paid good money for,
he ran backroads from Ballground to Atlanta
with the cunning of a fox,
hung on each county’s dirt curves like a banking hawk.
He remembers best how driving with no headlights
the black Ford felt for the road like a bat
and how his own eyes, groping at first for moonlight,
learned to cut through darkness like an owl’s.
Sometimes he drove those black roads on instinct alone.
As the shadow of a bridge falls across his face,
his rear-view says he is not the same man.
Still tonight when there is no traffic, no patrol,
no streetlight to cast shadows or light the center line,
he will search again for the spirit
behind the eyes in his rear-view mirror.
Tonight in open country in heavenly darkness
the interstate to Atlanta will crumble into gravel and sand,
median and shoulder will fall into pine forest,
and his foot will floor the stripped-out Ford
till eighteen wheels roll, roll, roll
him backwards as far as his mind will haul.
A Trucker Breaks Down
Remembering himself pulling onto a highway
in Moultrie, Georgia, is remembering a direction, firm hands,
clear eyes. All roadsigns glowed in his headlights like true
evidence of things unseen. Only now have signs begun to lie
become no more than compasses pointing degrees
for eyes that no longer believe in north.
So he dreams of breaking down between Moultrie and Savannah,
his truck rolling down a backroad alone
between barbed wire fences breaking into cotton fields
breaking into forest turning into pasture
where shadows graze under moonlight falling into deeper darkness,
always alone moving into the solitude of all nightmares,
becoming less and less a truck hauling freight,
becoming solvent, fluid, tires melting onto blacktop
crumbling into tar and sand, separating finally into currents
of water, becoming mist downstream, becoming fog
flowing down through absolute darkness into a pool of rising vapor.
The Farmers
Mouth full of wet bandanna bound
to the throat with a farmer’s belt,
each wrist lashed to a length of rope,
they are leading you from the green field
to the barn, to a world of animals, up steps
to strap you across the hay-strewn floor.
One ties each wrist
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